14. Wren #2
“Wonder,” he repeats, testing the word as if it’s a foreign currency. “I don’t feel like a wonder. I feel like a man who wants people to stop shining lights in his backyard.”
“That’s because you are that man,” I say, looking back at him. “But you’re a mystery to them. And people will pay a lot of money to be the one who solves a mystery.”
He shakes his head, his brow furrowing again. “I’m not a puzzle to be solved. I’m just... here.”
“I know,” I whisper. The admission feels heavy, a secret I’m keeping from the room full of people just on the other side of the door.
“But people want to believe there’s more than that, so they make up shit and monetize it.
Bigfoot ‘just being here’ doesn’t sell tickets.
‘Solitary Ape-Man Uses Wood Knocks to Find Love’ sells tickets.
” As I say it, that ever-present guilt comes knocking.
I’m one of those people who made shit up and monetized it.
“Humans are exhausting,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. He leans against the porch railing, his gaze following mine out into the forest. “You spend so much time looking for things that aren’t there that you miss everything that is.”
“Tell me about it.” I sigh, thinking of the four years I spent learning how to decode symbols in paintings while my family’s lodge was rotting from the inside out.
I’d spent my whole life looking for meaning in old things, never realizing that the most significant thing in my life was a seven-foot-two man with a bee obsession and a tendency to argue with projectors.
We stand there for a while, the silence between us shifting from sharp tension to something more comfortable, like a well-worn pair of boots. It’s the first time our teasing hasn’t felt like a defensive maneuver. It feels like a bridge, though maybe not the linguistic kind Barnaby would recognize.
“You know,” I say, nudging his arm with my shoulder. “If you ever get tired of guarding the forest, you could always have a career in public speaking. You have a very commanding presence when you’re correcting people about their research.”
“I’d rather be stung by my own bees,” he says, but his tone is light. “Repeatedly. In the soft parts of my face.”
“Fair enough. But the ‘Honey Man’ brand is really taking off. We could do a whole line of artisanal wood-knockers. ‘Guaranteed to attract a mate or your money back.’”
He groans, but there’s a flicker of a laugh buried in it. “You’re a terrible business partner, Wren Cassidy.”
“I’m the best one you’ve got,” I say, and for a moment, the statement feels like a promise.
I’m the only one who knows the truth, the only one standing between him and the pocket-vested legions of the internet.
It’s a terrifying responsibility, but as I look at him, standing tall against the dark Cascades, I realize I wouldn’t trade it for a fully booked lodge and a paid-off mortgage.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, the screen a jarringly bright white against the darkness of the porch.
I need to check the hotline, a habit I haven’t been able to break even during my ‘Guardian of the Guardian’ duties.
The notifications are a relentless crawl of sightings and theories, but one post on a local cryptid forum catches my eye.
It’s a photo, blurry and taken at a distance, showing a tall, dark figure moving near the lodge’s woodpile. The caption reads: Spotted at Cassidy Lodge. Is this the ‘Silent Neighbor’? Or just the most suspiciously large employee in Washington state?
The figure in the photo is unmistakably Rowan, even through the digital grain.
He’s carrying a stack of logs that would break a normal man’s back, and his posture is identical to the one he’s currently holding against the porch rail.
The conspiracy thread underneath is already fifty comments deep, with people analyzing the length of his stride and the width of his shoulders.
A cold knot of dread tightens in my stomach.
The hotline was a joke, a way to keep the lights on, but the internet is starting to look closer than I ever intended.
The mystery isn’t just in the woods anymore; it’s on my porch, wearing a T-shirt from my gift shop and looking at me with a sincerity that makes my chest ache.
“Everything okay?” Rowan asks, noticing the way my thumb has stopped scrolling. He leans down, trying to see the screen, and I quickly lock the phone and slide it back into my pocket.
“Fine,” I say, forcing a smile that I know doesn’t reach my eyes.
I know I should tell him because of our we-talk-first rule, but I can’t bring myself to do it just yet.
“Just Barnaby’s fans being enthusiastic.
We should probably head back in before he starts a live demonstration of scent marking.
I don’t think Marge’s cobbler can survive that kind of atmosphere. ”
Rowan grunts, his eyes lingering on my pocket for a second before he nods. He knows I’m lying, or at least that I’m hiding something, but he doesn’t push. He’s a creature of the forest; he knows that some things are better left in the shadows until they’re ready to be seen.
“After you, Manager,” he says, stepping back to let me lead the way.
As I touch the door handle, I can feel him right behind me, a massive, silent presence that feels more like home than any building I’ve ever lived in.
The blurry photo in my pocket feels like a ticking clock, but for now, I just want to listen to the sound of his boots on the boards and the way he scoffs when Barnaby starts talking about “solitary males” again.
I open the door, and the heat and noise of the common room wash over us.
Barnaby is currently explaining how Sasquatch footprints are actually a form of landscape art.
I hear Rowan’s breath hitch as he prepares his next rebuttal, and I can’t help but smile.
The world is coming for us, but for tonight, we’re just two people in a lodge, united by the absolute certainty that everything this man knows is wrong.